


Drunk and Fuck

by Greytipped (halreyn)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst, Drunk Sex, Hate Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 22:01:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2244873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halreyn/pseuds/Greytipped
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chanyeol has never forgiven Jongdae for Baekhyun's death eight years ago. Eight years later, they meet again; drunk and angry, they fuck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drunk and Fuck

**Author's Note:**

> fill for exo kinkmeme  
> warnings: car accident, panic attack, self-harm

 

Kai’s the first to jump to his feet when he sees Jongdae. “Hey,” he says sheepishly, cigarette dangling from his fingers.

Jongdae looks from Kai – in a tuxedo, but collar already open and rumpled – to Kyungsoo, clothes immaculately pressed, every strand of hair in place. Even perched on the porch steps like that, there isn’t a single wrinkle in sight.

Kyungsoo doesn’t really meet Jongdae’s eyes.

Even after eight years, Jongdae still knows when something is wrong.

“What’s wrong?” He asks suspiciously. “Did you give my room away? Am I late for the wedding? Did Sehun run away from you two at last?”

The porch door swings open; Sehun appears, beer cans in hand.

“Chanyeol – “ he says over his shoulder. Jongdae stares. He keeps staring as Park Chanyeol appears.

Taller than Sehun, eyes as big as kyungsoo, grin sunnier than Kai’s on a good day.

The last time they’d met, Jongdae and Chanyeol had both ended up in the A&E department of the local hospital.

It had been the night of Baekhyun’s funeral. Jongdae doesn’t think Suho has forgiven either one of them, not even eight years down the road. He’d sped, the entire way from the funeral house to the hospital, entirely silent.

“Jongdae.”

“Park.” Jongdae nods shortly. “You came.”

“You came too.” Chanyeol stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans, shoulders hunching.

“I wouldn’t have come if I had known,” Jongdae says frankly; Sehun winces. Kai scuffs the porch with his dress shoes. Betrayed, Jongdae glances at Kyungsoo, most probably the ringleader.

“It’s been eight years.”

“Yeah, I can count,” Jongdae snipes. Chanyeol frowns. “It’s their wedding. Don’t take it out on him, man. It’s between us.”

“There’s _nothing_ between us,” Jongdae corrects. Correction: there is, Baekhyun, but Baekhyun is dead, so it’s this _nothing_ that keeps both of them apart. “I’ll be getting a room at the motel,” he adds. “I’ll see you all at the wedding.”

\--

The motel is easily an hour’s walk away. Jongdae starts walking, keeps walking, even as the sun starts.

“Jongdae!” Kai’s motorbike slides to a stop beside Jongdae. “I’ll give you a lift.”

“I don’t want it,” Jongdae says. The luggage handle is sticky from sweat in his hand. Why did they choose to stay here again, given the heat?

Kai’s eyes are serious, even through the visor.

“If you don’t get on, I’m not going back.”

Jongdae glances at Kai, and his custom-made bike. He hasn’t seen Kai in 8 years, and he’s sorry that things _are_ this way – but the gleam of the metal, the throbbing engine –

Jongdae keeps walking.

Kai trails him, grimly, in the heat.

It’s Jongdae that wins, in the end. Kai turns the bike around and drives back, without a word. Angry.

Jongdae might be late for the wedding. He finds a gas station and rents a locker, stashes his luggage in it. Turns around and makes his way back, shirt untucked, tie in his hand, sweat staining the whole of his back.

\--

They used to walk everywhere, him and Baekhyun, when they were younger and didn’t have a car. Then Baekhyun got together with Chanyeol, and Jongdae never needed to walk.

There wasn’t anywhere that Jongdae wanted to go, without Baekhyun. That hasn’t changed.

\--

“Get in,” Chanyeol says, rolling down the window of his car. Jongdae takes a step back.

They were all in a car, that night, when –

“I’ll walk,” Jongdae says.

“You’re a grudge-holding dick,” Chanyeol says. “Kai came back upset as fuck, fought with Kyungsoo and Sehun. An hour _before their wedding._ ”

It’s not the same car. This one is so well-maintained it looks like Chanyeol spent months of his salary on this.

“I’ll walk,” Jongdae says, again. Chanyeol shakes his head in disbelief.

“Is it because it’s me?”

“No,” Jongdae says, honestly.

“I know you hate me,” Chanyeol says, frankly. “I hate you too, and I’ll never forgive you. But we should be old enough to put that aside for a few hours.”

Why is it so _easy_ for Chanyeol to say these? But Jongdae hates Chanyeol too. They both know that.

“It’s not,” Jongdae says. “I don’t like cars.”

That shuts Chanyeol up. Jongdae keeps walking. Chanyeol speeds his car up, kicking up dust.

\--

Jongdae remembers staring at the moon, that night. It was the full moon, and if Jongdae kept staring at it, he could ignore the fact that he was upside down - crushed in an overturned car, legs gone numb.

Rescue services took five hours to come, that night.

Baekhyun bled to death beside Jongdae, in front of Chanyeol, that night.

Jongdae tries not go out at night, now, especially not when it’s full moon, like this. But Sehun had insisted on having their wedding under the night sky, in a small forest clearing they used to hang out in back in university.

The only seat left is one next to Chanyeol. He has a beer bottle in his hand, already, condensation formed and droplets beading over his long fingers.

Jongdae slinks to his seat, head down. He’s late.

They recite the vows, while Jongdae picks at his fingernails. He had taken his best suit along – to be fair, it was his _only_ suit – and ironed it and borrowed a clean, good-looking linen shirt and even dress shoes from Tao – and had ruined them all, in the walk back. Jongdae looks like something the cat dragged in, he knows.

Sehun, Kai and Kyungsoo had met, when they were all in the same small community college. There were two trios – Jongdae, Baekhyun and Chanyeol, and the trio of Sehun, Kai and Kyungsoo.

Chanyeol had been dating Baekhyun, and Jongdae had just been – there. Sehun, Kai and Kyungsoo had been involved in a strange triangle, where Kai dated Sehun, and slept with Kyungsoo on the side. Jongdae had wanted to avoid that, because he had seen the toll it took on them. Kai barely turned up for classes, Kyungsoo sat like a zombie through all of them, and Sehun had dropped out of college.

Now, they had found their way together; Jongdae hasn’t seen Chanyeol in eight years, will never see Baekhyun again.

Thing is, Jongdae doesn’t have anything in his life. Not after that night.

He shouldn’t have come, today. It was a mistake, to see any of them.

Chanyeol passes him an opened bottle. Jongdae takes it and drinks, blindly. He keeps drinking, as quietly as he can, until he’s downed the entire bottle.

“They look good, don’t they?”

Jongdae doesn’t bother replying. Chanyeol hates him, and with good reason. Jongdae doesn’t see any reason to pretend.

“If Baekhyun had known that you loved him,” Chanyeol says, slowly, low enough that Jongdae can just barely hear him – “do you think, this could have been the three of us, here?”

Chanyeol has an arm slung over the back of Jongdae’s chair, legs crossed. He’s watching Jongdae, like he hasn’t just dragged Jongdae’s biggest secret out into the open. It’s dark, except for the tiny campfire built right at the front, where the three of them are exchanging vows. Firelight doesn’t reach them, doesn’t touch any bit of Chanyeol’s face.

No one had known, no one had known, no one had _known._

Chanyeol brings his own beer bottle to Jongdae’s lips. Tilts it and begins to pour, Jongdae’s lips slipping open, attempting to catch the flow of sour beer.

His hands fly up to hold the bottle, slipping over Chanyeol’s.

Jongdae’s choking, choking on beer in the last row at a wedding.

Chanyeol leans in close.

“I hope you choke to death,” Chanyeol says. Jongdae takes it, like a punishment, he has beer coming out of his nose and mouth, spilling all over him, but he keeps his throat working, taking the lack of air – holding it close him, the light-headedness, the shaking that starts in his palm. Until the bottle is empty.

Jongdae deserves an award. No one noticed or heard anything, no one, except Chanyeol, still close and intimate.

“I know you hate me,” Jongdae says, words spilling without thought, hoarse. “I wish it was me, too.”

“I wish Baekhyun had never known you,” Chanyeol says, and Jongdae says, “I-“

“Can’t say it?” Chanyeol’s eyes are glittering, strangely. He’s a sunshine boy, crafted to be on posters and all. But he’s here and he wants to watch Jongdae suffer.

“You’re so selfish.” Chanyeol says. “He died, in a car that you were driving, and you still can’t say that he _should have never met you._ ”

Jongdae had fought with Chanyeol, in the hospital. He’d stormed in and _shouted_ at Jongdae. The road had been clear, and dry – but Jongdae had lost control. Had swerved, off the bank, the car tumbling down the hillside.

Jongdae had no way to explain, could not explain that – he had seen the smile on Baekhyun’s face, as he had looked at Chanyeol, in the rearview mirror. Jongdae had followed Baekhyun’s gaze, and the car had spun out of control, as Jongdae’s eyes had met Chanyeol’s.

If Jongdae had not loved Baekhyun, if sadness and jealousy hadn’t hit him in that instant, if Jongdae hadn’t looked at Chanyeol – Baekhyun would still be alive.

So Jongdae had been hurt, and defensive. If Chanyeol hadn’t been there, Jongdae would still have Baekhyun.

That’s what Jongdae said, but Jongdae simply could not admit it, then, that he had killed Baekhyun.

It had lasted for an hour, that defensiveness, before – things had happened - and they had transferred Jongdae somewhere else.

“It’s my fault,” Jongdae says, numbly.

Chanyeol stills, as though in surprise. But it is Jongdae’s fault. He’s known it, for the past eight years.

“I’m sorry,” Jongdae says, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry that you lost him. I’ll do anything, to – make you less. I’ll do anything.”

“Prove it,” Chanyeol says. He says, “you know, you looked good, with your mouth around that bottle.”

Jongdae looks at Chanyeol, as though he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

Chanyeol leans back in his chair, spreading his legs.

“You’re nuts,” Jongdae says. He shouldn’t have left the house, at all.

“You said you were sorry,” Chanyeol says.

Jongdae bites his lip. Gets to his knees, woodenly.

“Not here,” Chanyeol says. He touches the back of Jongdae’s neck, grips it. “Wait for me, at my car.”

\--

“I’m not getting in,” Jongdae says. They’re at the row of cars, extending down the driveway from Kyungsoo’s house. Everyone else is still at the reception, shaking their asses in the middle of the forest under moonlight. Probably high on weed.

“Fine,” Chanyeol says, “fine, my room, then.”

\--

Jongdae closes the curtains, shutting out the moonlight. He feels better already, in this small room with the neat bed and tightly folded sheets.

Chanyeol’s grown taller, and even better looking. He and Sehun are both in the modelling industry, now.

Jongdae’s still living off the money in his parent’s wills. It can last him another year, but after that, he needs to find a real job. All Jongdae has been doing for the past few years is odd jobs, around town. He’s good at plumbing and gardening and can make lemonade. Whatever doesn’t require him to go too far away from home.

He’s colder, though. The Chanyeol Jongdae knew could be casually cruel, but not intentionally cruel. Not like this.

Maybe Chanyeol is only this way, to Jongdae. Maybe only Jongdae deserves this.

Jongdae gets to his knees, between Chanyeol’s spread legs.

“Have you done this before?” Chanyeol asks. “Other than to Baekhyun, I mean.”

Jongdae freezes. Baekhyun – had never said –

“It was before you met him.”

“I know,” Chanyeol says. “You told him that it was nothing, the next day, didn’t you?”

Jongdae undoes Chanyeol’s belt buckle, silent.

“That’s right,” Chanyeol says, tipping his head back, “run away.”

Chanyeol lifts up his hips, letting Jongdae pull his hands and underwear down.

He stops Jongdae, however, when Jongdae leans in.

“You’re really going to do it.”

Jongdae stares at Chanyeol’s cock. “Yes.”

“Fuck.” Chanyeol swears. He pushes Jongdae’s head away. “ _Fuck._ What’s wrong with you?”

Jongdae hasn’t even started.

“Is there something I missed?” He asks, lowly.

“Why the _fuck_ are you so obedient?”

Jongdae’s only this way, in front of Chanyeol. There’s no one else he owes so much to.

“Sehun told me,” Chanyeol says. “That you didn’t go back to school. That you went to another town and stayed there and wouldn’t let anyone contact you. They said you didn’t go to college, even. What happened to you?”

“So you didn’t mean it,” Jongdae says. “So you were just – testing me?”

“I did like the way you sucked that bottle,” Chanyeol says, “but yes.”

“Fuck you,” Jongdae says, without much heat. He gets to his feet and turns to leave. Chanyeol hooks his leg, and Jongdae trips.

Chanyeol’s on him in an instant, pushing him down. Jongdae lashes back, because Jongdae _doesn’t like being held down._

“Stop-moving-“ Chanyeol pants. Jongdae’s past caring, back into fear.

“Fuck,” Chanyeol says, miserably. Jongdae’s face down in the carpet, hands pinned behind his back by Chanyeol.

“Are you crying?” Chanyeol says incredulously, fingers tracing Jongdae’s cheeks. Jongdae’s panting, ridiculously fast. He’s trying to get his breathing back under control but Chanyeol’s weight is still holding him down.

“Get-off-“

Chanyeol gets off him. Jongdae lies there, on the carpet, and tries to breathe properly. In, and out. In, and out.

Chanyeol drags him up, like a rag doll, and dumps him on the bed. Jongdae curls into himself, arm shielding his face.

The bed sinks, from Chanyeol’s weight. He’s kicked his pants off, all the way; legs are bare, beside Jongdae.

\--

When Jongdae has calmed down enough, he tries to sit up. Chanyeol watches him out of the corner of his eye, back to drinking.

He passes Jongdae the half-drunk bottle, and gets off the bed, ass bare.

“It’s late,” he says, pulling the mini-fridge in the corner open. It has to be Kyungsoo’s idea, to put mini-fridges in the guest room; Kai’s idea, to put alcohol in Chanyeol’s.

Sure enough, Chanyeol gets another bottle of beer from the fridge. He flips the cap open with his car keys.

“I could drive you back, or you could walk and end up mugged, or you could stay and go back tomorrow.” Chanyeol considers the bottle, then pulls out a second one, jimmying the cap open as well.

Bottle in each hand, shirt barely covering his cock, definitely not his balls, Chanyeol shuts the fridge with his right foot. He walks across the room, back to Jongdae.

It’s been a long time since Jongdae drank. Yixing and Minseok had kept a close eye on him, in the days after the accident.

He hates this beer, because they used to drink it all the time, back then.

Jongdae drinks, and by the time Chanyeol has settled himself, his bottle is empty. He takes another from Chanyeol without a word.

Chanyeol flips the light switch off, after a while. The only light comes from Chanyeol’s phone charger, in the corner, and the bathroom.

\--

Jongdae still doesn’t know how it happened. Chanyeol took the bottle from him; Jongdae was already leaning on Chanyeol’s shoulder, hand on his thigh.

Chanyeol kissed the side of his face, then down, to his neck. Jongdae made a sound, that made Chanyeol map that spot again.

A drunk Jongdae was easy to handle. He remembers Chanyeol touching him, pushing him onto the bed, rearranging his limbs easily – pants and boxers off, legs on either side of Chanyeol.

Jongdae kept biting Chanyeol – biting his neck, his chest, his arms. Tasting the salt and sweat of a human being, after so long.

“Christ,” Chanyeol said, sticking fingers into Jongdae’s mouth – “some of us actually need our body for work –“

Jongdae bit his fingers. Chanyeol spread Jongdae’s legs wider, in retaliation, grinding their crotches together, generating sensation that shut both of them up.

“Fuck it, I needed a break anyway,” Chanyeol muttered. Jongdae smiled, against Chanyeol’s chest, before taking a nipple into his mouth. He traced the wrinkled skin, felt the shape of the small nub, the tiny crater right at the tip of it. Put his mouth firmly against that and sucked, drawing a curse from Chanyeol, who rocked them harder together.

Chanyeol’s hands dug into Jongdae’s hips, painful. Jongdae tried to squirm away, but Chanyeol wouldn’t let him. He could feel Chanyeol’s fingernails.

He flung his head back, forehead colliding with Chanyeol’s chin.

Chanyeol came, biting his way down Jongdae’s face. Jongdae tasted blood, Chanyeol must have bit his own tongue, by accident.

Jongdae doesn’t know how it happened, but it happened, and Jongdae’s going to keep rolling with it.

Jongdae bites Chanyeol’s tongue, then his lips, when Chanyeol retreats. Hangs on to Chanyeol’s shoulders, pulling himself up, to attack Chanyeol’s collarbone.

Chanyeol hefts in a breath, then slams both of them down onto the mattress, driving the breath out of Jongdae.

He tears at Jongdae’s shirt – Jongdae can hear cloth ripping.

“Fuck, don’t touch the shirt-“

Chanyeol’s palms are huge, on Jongdae’s chest. Two of them together, fingers spanned full, could cover the whole of Jongdae’s chest.

Chanyeol presses down deliberately, like that, like he’s doing CPR (but like that it’s crushing the air out of Jongdae’s chest).

Jongdae draws a leg back, then kicks Chanyeol, in the waist. Wincing, he falls to the side, off Jongdae.

Chanyeol’s hard to kill – he’s back, blanketing Jongdae, and Jongdae draws an arm and punches him, in the face, as hard as he can. Jongdae’s half-drunk but he’s panicking enough to pack a decent hit.

Chanyeol hits him, backhand.

That’s like the start, because Jongdae surges off the bed, slamming into Chanyeol – they tumble backwards, Jongdae over Chanyeol.

The taste of blood in Jongdae’s mouth is kicking him up a gear, nearing fear.

Chanyeol lies there, unresisting. Jongdae’s panting, closes his eyes for a moment, and it’s like Chanyeol can see, even in the dark. He rolls them over, pinning Jongdae down, and they

Kiss

Is that called a

It’s tongue-fucking. Chanyeol trying to jam his tongue into Jongdae’s mouth and Jongdae resisting, until fighting somehow becomes entanglement, and they’re kissing, kissing like they want to twine their tongues into one another, until there’s no room left to swear.

Jongdae’s touching Chanyeol, because touch is important. He runs his arms up and down Chanyeol’s torso, light-headed.

Chanyeol slides hands down, down, past Jongdae’s cock (his arms are long), to his ass.

He breaks away, going for the side drawer. Jongdae lies there wheezing, alcohol, fear and exhaustion riding to a strange semi-climax.

It’s good that they’re in the dark.

Chanyeol fingers him, nosing at Jongdae’s neck – Jongdae bites his lips so hard blood comes out, stifling the moans. It’s been too long for it to be really pleasure – it’s hurt, and Jongdae feeling uncomfortable and intruded upon, the niggling fear that Chanyeol’s fingernails will sink into his inner walls and rip them open – but it’s good that it’s not pleasure. It’s good that it makes Jongdae feel too full and claustrophobic and like his air is going to get cut off at any moment.

This is good, because he owes Chanyeol too much. Jongdae doesn’t deserve pleasure.

Chanyeol eases in too quickly, for it to even be mildly comfortable. Jongdae hitches his legs around Chanyeol’s waist, arching.

He wants weight on his spine, he wants Chanyeol sinking too deep into him, he wants to be chased out from his own body, until he’s just a ghost watching them fuck.

Pain, like this, is good. Pain, like this, rising in a tide that keeps brushing Jongdae’s limits (he keeps wanting to pull away), that makes him twist and tears leak soundlessly from his eyes, staining cheeks (thank god for the sweat and the darkness), that makes Jongdae feel like he can’t go back to who he was – this is good.

Chanyeol comes, hot and filthy in Jongdae.

He’s still hard, and his fingers find Jongdae’s cock, playing with it, stroking it, as Jongdae bites Chanyeol’s arm, that he puts over Jongdae’s mouth.

He jerks Jongdae roughly, almost to climax once, stops him by circling fingers at the base of his cock and squeezing hard – backs off, fucking Jongdae lazily, rolling his hips out and in deep.

Does it again, stroking Jongdae, without the fucking. Stops him, again.

Jongdae starts moving _properly_ , the next time Chanyeol starts moving his hips. Pushes himself back on Chanyeol’s cock, ignoring every muscle and every thought that tells him not to. He gets only pain and more pain for rushing it, pain that seems to have settled into a deep ache, but Jongdae’s chasing pain that sparks, sharp, and he has to keep moving harder and harder, slamming his hips against Chanyeol’s. The bones of their hips keep bumping into one another, and Jongdae lands on the mattress so hard with each roll he’s sure that there will be bruises on his ass.

The whole bed is moving, creaking, protesting. It’s still not hard enough.

He grits his teeth, then disentangles a leg from Chanyeol’s waist. Holds his right leg in his right arm, stretching it backwards, until he can put it – sort of – on Chanyeol’s shoulder.

Chanyeol leans on his right leg, bending it in, and Jongdae _cries_ , tears sort of leaking in a mixture out of him, breath choked.

It’s a haze, after that, Chanyeol adjusting his hips and fucking in steadily and _hard,_ piston-like, brutal, chasing his own orgasm. He strips Jongdae’s cock mercilessly, and it’s not even- it’s too much at last, it’s so much that Jongdae’s only aware that humans are probably not supposed to feel so much. He can’t even tell the difference between pain and pleasure, only that his whole body has started burning, and Jongdae wants the fire to keep getting built even higher.

He actually blacks out, this time. Wakes, blearily, to Chanyeol’s fingers in his ass, cleaning out the cum. Wiping him down, roughly.

Goes back to sleep, too tired.

\--

Chanyeol wakes him up the next morning. He looks like – like someone set a flock of hungry birds on him. There are bite and scratch marks littered all over him, so much so that Jongdae has to look away.

Chanyeol puts cream, on Jongdae’s bruises. It’s cool; Jongdae closes his eyes and enjoys the sensation.

“Take off your shirt and I’ll sew the buttons back on,” Chanyeol says. Jongdae lets him take it off.

Chanyeol’s fingers still, on Jongdae’s wrists. Last night, the long-sleeved shirt had not left Jongdae’s arms.

“What are these?” Chanyeol asks, eerily calm.

Jongdae slits his eyes open, confused. His heart drops to somewhere around his toes, when he realizes what Chanyeol’s looking at.

White, raised lines, down Jongdae’s right wrist. Long enough, in the right place, such that Jongdae can’t lie about it.

Jongdae licks his lips, and Chanyeol asks, “ _when._ ”

Jongdae shakes Chanyeol off- Chanyeol catches him again, though. Stands close enough, says fiercely, “ _when._ ”

“A while ago,” Jongdae says. He jumps, as Chanyeol traces the lines.

“Should I call Yixing? Or maybe Kai, Sehun, Kyungsoo?”

“Back then,” Jongdae says. “After. That night.”

Chanyeol’s fingers are digging painfully, into his arm. “Why didn’t any of us know?”

Because Jongdae had begged Yixing not to – had cried and begged and promised not to do it again, as long as Yixing didn’t tell any of them. Yixing and Minseok hadn’t trusted him, of course, and they had been there for those few months, until Jongdae lost the courage to try again.

“I don’t have to tell you all everything,” Jongdae says. “Let me go, Park.”

“So you don’t like cars, or bikes, I guess motor vehicles in general – to the extent that you’re willing to walk hours in the sun – and you tried to kill yourself. Back then. Anything else that you’re not telling me, Jongdae?”

Jongdae also doesn’t like the night, Jongdae doesn’t like to go outdoors _period_ , Jongdae… Jongdae’s life, for the past eight years, seems to be a long list of things that he hasn’t and doesn’t want to tell Chanyeol.

“Why should I tell you anything?”

“You said you’d do anything for me,” Chanyeol says. He was always whip-smart-sharp.

“It’s none of your business,” Jongdae tries, and Chanyeol says, “I’m going back home, with you. I want to talk to Yixing.”

\--

Jongdae makes his escape when Chanyeol’s in the bathroom.

It’s a stupid idea. He gets a panic attack, halfway down the road, barely out of sight of the house. Crouches and tries to breathe, hand to his chest, the other hand scraping at the gravel.

It’s been almost a year since his last one, and coming back here coming back here Baekhyun Baekhyun Baekhyun

Jongdae can’t _think._ That’s the worse part – feeling entirely disconnected from everything and everyone, fear blaring sirens, uncontrollably, into him.

Chanyeol picks him up easily, Jongdae panting too hard to resist. He cradles him off the road, away from the sun.

Jongdae doesn’t even know what Chanyeol was doing, to be honest. He was just trying very, very, very hard to breathe a bit more calmly, to ride the waves of fear out.

Chanyeol sits closer, when Jongdae finally can uncurl his fists. He’s torn crescent-shaped holes in his palm, again.

Jongdae lets Chanyeol stroke his hair; lets Chanyeol loop his right arm around Jongdae’s shoulder, gently, grip loose.

Jongdae’s exhausted. All he wants to do, is to go back home.

“How did you even get here?” Chanyeol asks, rubbing an hand soothingly up and down Jongdae’s arm.

“Sleeping pills,” Jongdae says. Yixing had driven him cross-country, all the way.

He pats down his pocket, searching for his phone. When he finally flips it open, there are fifty missed calls from Yixing and Minseok, both.

The phone starts ringing again, as he looks at it. Chanyeol plucks it out of his shaky hands.

“Yixing?”

“…Chanyeol? Where’s Jongdae?”

“Next to me,” Chanyeol says, glancing at Jongdae. “Just wanted to say hi.”

He fits the phone to Jongdae’s ear.

“Yixing,” Jongdae says, weakly.

“What happened?”

“Had an attack,” Jongdae says. “Can you come pick me up?”

“I’ll pick you up in an hour,” Yixing promises. Jongdae nods, then realizes that he left his luggage in the gas station.

“Can you pick me up at the gas station instead?”

Chanyeol’s watching Jongdae, as he puts down.

“It’s a long walk,” he says.

“I know,” Jongdae says.

“I’ll walk you,” Chanyeol says.

And he does. He helps Jongdae to his feet, and loops an arm around Jongdae’s waist, holding him steady.

They walk like that, quietly, down a road they used to walk with Baekhyun many years ago, to a familiar gas station.

Jongdae’s too tired to think much, but he can appreciate how different this is. That whatever used to be between them seems to have disappeared, like a bad dream.

Chanyeol gets Jongdae’s luggage for him, sits him down on a bench at a gas station, and buys breakfast for two of them – a salad for Chanyeol, a greasy burger, fries and milkshake for Jongdae.

“I’m not young,” Chanyeol says, ruefully. “I can’t just eat whatever I want.”

Jongdae snorts. He unwraps the burger and holds it out; Chanyeol takes a bite, almost immediately.

The salad goes uneaten, and they squabble over the thick steak fries. Jongdae goes to buy more food, and it’s only when Yixing is here and Chanyeol is loading luggage up the truck that Jongdae realizes how much better he’s feeling.

“Sorry about your face,” Jongdae says sheepishly. Chanyeol has a beautiful bruise forming on his cheek.

“It’s fine,” Chanyeol says, “that’s what makeup is for.”

They stand there, looking at each other. Jongdae looks, really looks. Chanyeol’s older, of course, still as good-looking, but he carries himself with a wariness that he never used to have.

“How were you?” Jongdae asks.

Chanyeol shrugs, still holding Jongdae’s gaze. “I survived.”

“I wish we stayed in touch,” Jongdae says.

“We can,” Chanyeol says. “I can come visit you.”

Jongdae winces. His house… he’d rather not.

Chanyeol leans in. He lands a light kiss on Jongdae’s split lip, then draws back quickly.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Jongdae says, “I’m sorry, too.”

Sorry for all the years, that went past, sorry for all the misplaced hate, sorry for themselves, of course, for the derailed plans and lost ambitions. Sorry that they lost Baekhyun but they let each other go, as well, in the aftermath. Sorry that no one was there in those days, no one who really understood how much Baekhyun had meant to them, no one else who woke up with the same gut-tearing guilt that seemed like a live burial, on days.

Sorry that they hadn’t just been around each other, those days. Sorry that they couldn’t have been.

Chanyeol gets a bottle of water for Jongdae. He sits on the backseat, next to Jongdae, watching as Jongdae downs the pills.

Jongdae keeps his gaze on Chanyeol, until his eyelids close and sleep takes him away.

 

 

  _Two Months Later_

The next time Park Chanyeol shows up, he shows up in style.

Jongdae’s gardening. He sees the horse first – a huge, shaggy beast – then Park Chanyeol, sitting on the box, reins in hand – then the caravan, painted in cheerful red and green, behind him.

“Hey, Jongdae,” Chanyeol says, waving a hand. Jongdae wonders if he’s hallucinating. He takes a sip from his bottle, then wanders over to the front gate, to examine the horse.

Jongdae’s living in a small town, but even here, _horse-drawn caravans_ aren’t common.

“Do you think you can ride this?” Chanyeol asks. “It’s not metal, and it doesn’t have an engine. It just has this beautiful beast Suho.”

“ _Suho?”_

“Suho named the horse after him,” Chanyeol grins. “This is his caravan, he says it’s nice to see the countryside, like this.”

“Figures,” Jongdae says. The horse is huge and placid, black dappled with white in places.

“They have a gas stove and a fold-down bed inside,” Chanyeol says. “I thought we could go take a trip.”

Jongdae knows the date well. It’s near to Baekhyun’s death anniversary.

“Why not?” Jongdae says. “I’ll get my stuff.”

“It’s going to take at least a week, by caravan,” Chanyeol warns.

“Come in and use the shower,” Jongdae says, rolling his eyes. Chanyeol’s a clean freak, has always been.

\--

Truth is, Jongdae has no idea whether he can handle it. He sits on the box all the way, with Chanyeol, for the first day. He nods off to sleep, and Chanyeol has to shake him awake, before he falls off and gets rolled over by the caravan wheels.

It’s slow, and sleepy. The horse lumbers onwards, through familiar streets, then out into the countryside. They’re surrounded by fields and fields of wheat, golden and blooming under the insane heat of summer.

Chanyeol teaches him how to handle Suho, how to make the sounds for start and go, how to tug on the reins to signal Suho to turn.

There’s nothing around, for miles. Jongdae should be feeling anxious, because he’s never travelled so far out for many years, but the rhythmic crunch of gravel, the heat of summer that’s making both of them sweat, the smell of clean, fresh air, almost as though they can taste the blue sky above, Chanyeol fiddling with the reins, puzzled – this feels fine.

The last road trip they had been on was the one with Baekhyun. That trip had been Chanyeol’s idea, and Baekhyun had insisted Jongdae go, as well.

Eight years later, they’re making a trip again. That trip ended in Baekhyun’s death, and this one should end with Baekhyun, as well.

\--

Chanyeol has marked out farmhouses and gas stations, where they lumber in and get awkward stares or _can I take a picture with your caravan?_ from people.

Most of the time, though, it’s just Jongdae and Chanyeol, sitting on the box, watching the world go by them.

Chanyeol talks. He tells Jongdae about the years after, about not going to college and sort of stumbling his way through life, until someone he met in a bar offered him a one-off modelling job. Chanyeol went, made friends, got invited back to another shoot, and another, until he landed a contract at a mid-sized modelling agency.

Jongdae doesn’t say much about his life. There isn’t much to say. Jongdae just says that he found it hard to take transportation, and he didn’t dare to travel much, so he stayed with Yixing and Xiumin for a few years. He moved out of their house just two years ago.

“What were you doing?” Chanyeol asks.

“Anything,” Jongdae says. “Gardening, mostly. Odd jobs, whenever people need me. The house was Yixing’s grandmother’s. He let it to me.”

Chanyeol can tell that Jongdae’s uncomfortable, so he leaves it.

Jongdae likes the silences, the best. Sometimes he opens a comic and reads, while Chanyeol drives. Or Chanyeol has podcasts he keeps in his phone – he’ll play one and Jongdae and him will listen.

It’s either podcasts about animals, or travelling. Different places.

It’s unlikely that Jongdae will ever have the money or the means or the capacity to travel anywhere far again, so he just takes these as fairytales.

They bathe in the streams, around, if they can’t find gas stations or trailer parks. Jongdae usually watches Chanyeol surreptitiously, admiring his tanned skin, the long muscles of his body.

It started with them horsing around, in the water, flinging water at each other. Then it moved to Chanyeol massaging the aches out of Jongdae’s neck, gently, or rinsing the soap out of Jongdae’s eyes. Jongdae couldn’t suppress the way his body reacted to Chanyeol’s; couldn’t miss the way Chanyeol looked at him, the way Chanyeol would want to touch but take back his hand.

“Don’t jerk off at night,” Jongdae said one day, out of the blue, when they were both butt-naked in the river - “do it in front of me, if you’re thinking about me.” Chanyeol said “ok,” Jongdae watched him, then took his hand away, replacing it with his own.

Sometimes Chanyeol jerks Jongdae off, or Jongdae jerks Chanyeol off. Or both, sometimes underwater, sometimes on the banks, sometimes in the shallows. There isn’t the urgency of that night, only Chanyeol going “hey” and taking Jongdae’s hand meaningfully, placing it on his cock. Chanyeol open and noisy, appreciative, hips jerking as Jongdae touches him.

They have competitions, sometimes, to see who lasts longer. Chanyeol usually gives up first, laughing. Jongdae learns the way Chanyeol shivers, shakes, twitches, tenses. Learns all of it hungrily, like parched ground after a drought.

\--

One night Chanyeol wakes up, shouting. Jongdae shakes him awake, Chanyeol flailing (he catches Jongdae squarely in his jaw).

Chanyeol glances at Jongdae, then looks away, face pale. Gets out of the caravan bed, hitching on a pair of trousers, and leaves.

Chanyeol had been shouting, “ _Baekhyun!_ ”

That night, Chanyeol had been knocked unconscious. He’d only recovered in the last half an hour, before Baekhyun had gone silent and then died.

Before that, it was just Jongdae and Baekhyun, Jongdae holding Baekhyun’s hand, feeling the warmth leave him. Jongdae scratching at the car door so hard he tore all his nails, legs pinned and unable to move, no matter how hard he tried. Baekhyun kept saying, _Jongdae, it hurts,_ sometimes he’d say _Chanyeol,_ sometimes he would say, in a small voice, _it’s cold, it’s so cold._ And, _is anyone coming?_

Jongdae gets out of the caravan, looking for Chanyeol. He lifts his head and it’s the full moon above.

Like in a dream, Jongdae takes a few steps, then a few more. His legs feel heavy.

Slowly, he topples to the ground, shaking.

\--

There are hands, holding Jongdae, saying _Jongdae, Jongdae,_ and Jongdae goes, _Baekhyun?_ Then, _Baekhyun,_ torn like a sob, out of him, _Baekhyun, where are you, Baekhyun, Baekhyun, I was so scared, I thought you died, I had this dream where you died and I couldn’t even go to your grave because I couldn’t step outside the house for months, Baekhyun, why did you have to play this joke on me?_

It’s Chanyeol, cradling Jongdae protectively, instead. He says _Jongdae,_ and Jongdae goes, _where’s Baekhyun? He was here just now._

\--

Chanyeol’s the one who tucks Jongdae in and sings softly to him, so Jongdae can focus on Chanyeol, and not the noises that seem to be all around. Jongdae still thinks he can hear Baekhyun.

\--

Jongdae relapses; he struggles up from sleep, sucking in gasps of air, fighting with the blankets. He dreamed that he was back in the car, moonlight illuminating the world before them, Baekhyun lost and hurt beside him, crying softly from the pain.

It’s still Chanyeol, there. He turns on the lights in the caravan and keeps a distance away from Jongdae, until he’s more calm.

Jongdae’s shaking, shaking. He used to have nightmares but this one was especially bad. They had been decreasing in intensity and frequency, but this one tonight felt more real.

It takes a few hours, until morning, before Jongdae has finally calmed down enough.

 --

“I think I should go back,” Jongdae says. He’s still on the bed; Chanyeol’s at the tiny table, legs folded impossibly on the stool.

They’re halfway into the journey, only.

Chanyeol has deep black circles around his eyes. He shrugs and lights up a cigarette.

“You don’t understand,” Jongdae says. “You don’t.”

“Are you asking for a fight?” Chanyeol says, calmly.

“I listened to him die,” Jongdae says, bleakly. “And it _was my fault_ , I was the one who swerved the car. I killed him and God made me listen to him die. I _killed him._ ”

“There was the car, the brakes, the road… It’s not your fault,” Chanyeol says.

“I looked at you,” Jongdae says. “I was looking at him, looking at you, when the car went off the road.”

Chanyeol’s expression – it goes a funny white, then green. He chokes on the smoke.

“That’s right,” Jongdae says. “It was _me._ It was because I was jealous and my hand slipped.”

For a moment, Chanyeol’s expression turns blank, and Jongdae’s convinced that Chanyeol will walk over and hit him. Is waiting for it, actually.

Someone’s knocking on the caravan door. “Jongdae? Jongdae? Chanyeol?”

Chanyeol stubs out his cigarette and gets to his feet.

It’s Yixing, and Minseok.

 

_Chanyeol_

“What did he tell you?” Yixing asks. Yixing’s older, more muscled. Has deeper lines in his face.

Yixing usually looks friendly, but he looks angry.

Chanyeol shoves his hands in his pockets. “He told me why the car went off the road.”

“And?” Yixing asks. “Are you angry? Do you blame him?”

“I lost the first person I loved,” Chanyeol says, raw. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Get in the car,” Yixing says. “Get the fuck in, because there’s something you need to see.”

\--

Yixing drives him all the way back, the week-long journey completed in just a day.

“This is my house,” Yixing says. It’s a two-storey brownstone, with an impossibly bright green lawn, and flowers blooming in pots at the edges. It’s neat, that’s what Chanyeol thinks. It’s neat, like Yixing and Minseok.

“Jongdae used to stay here,” Yixing says. “He told you, about how he cut his own wrist.”

“Is this going to be a pity story?”

“No,” Yixing says. “It’s just something you should fucking know.”

He walks quickly, shoving the gate open, walking up the gravel path. Chanyeol follows, as slowly as he can.

“A year,” Yixing says, indicating the garden. He opens the door with his key in angry, jerky motions. Chanyeol knows he’s supposed to ask, a year what, but he doesn’t want to.

“Three months,” Yixing says, indicating the living room, and the kitchen. He points to the stairs, at the end of the corridor. “Two months.”

He strides across the living room, into the corridor. Chanyeol follows.

They go up the stairs, past two rooms, until they reach a room, at the end of the corridor.

“One month,” Yixing says. He pulls the door open.

The light is warm and orange, soft. It’s a room that has nothing except a mattress on the floor, blanket folded neatly under the pillow.

There’s nothing else in the room. The window’s covered by blinds, torn tape on the wall around it.

“He took a month,” Yixing says, “to come out of this room.”

“What-“ Chanyeol begins, then – “Jongdae?”

“We couldn’t leave him alone, for the first month,” Yixing says. “Not after that night. Minseok quit his job and he would stay at home, with Jongdae. I would take over at night.”

Chanyeol knows that Jongdae’s still scared of cars, and doesn’t like to go too far away, into unfamiliar places. But he didn’t know that it was this way, at first.

Chanyeol glances at the thin mattress, placed in the centre of the room. He can picture Jongdae curled up in a ball, blanket pulled over him, eyes tightly closed; breathing fast and panicked.

“The windows?”

“No moonlight,” Yixing said. “We had to tape the blinds shut.”

“Why didn’t any of us _know?_ ”

“Everyone was affected,” Yixing says, “they were all dealing with it, on their own. You disappeared, too.”

Chanyeol did. He went to a new city and fucked around, trying his best to find someone that was like Baekhyun.

Chanyeol blames Jongdae. He still blames Jongdae. But that was long ago, and this – what Jongdae went through – he shouldn’t have gone through that.

“So he took a year, to go out of the house.”

“He moved out, after five years. Boy does odd jobs around the town – anything that doesn’t require him to stay indoors in an unfamiliar place, or travel far.”

“But he came to the wedding.”

“He’s getting better,” Yixing says. “Wanted to challenge himself.”

Chanyeol remembers Jongdae shaking his head adamantly, determined on walking. Remembers Jongdae, face white, sliding to his knees. Remembers Jongdae crouching in the dirt by the roadside, like an animal, eyes wild. Remembers Jongdae and the way he had hesitated slightly, before agreeing to travel with Chanyeol, smile real. Remembers the way Jongdae didn’t like to go back into the caravan, would insist on sitting with Chanyeol, or staying outside alone. Remembers how Jongdae would wait for Chanyeol before going anywhere, whether it was the rest stop, or a diner, or even to bathe.

Remembers how he felt, when he came back and saw Jongdae curled in the grass, unmoving; Jongdae pulling at his shirt, saying _where’s Baekhyun_ , Jongdae saying, in that hollow voice, _I killed him._

At least Chanyeol – moved on, a bit. Jongdae’s still stuck in the past, has been, for so long.

“Jongdae’s not a charity case,” Yixing says. “Minseok and I are happy to take care of him. It’s not a burden, to us, and he’s not – he’s a friend. He’s not someone to pity. If you still hate him, Park Chanyeol, or you think that you want to fix him – just fuck off. If you can’t give him the respect he deserves as a human being, don’t go _near him._ Take it that I’m begging you, ok?”

“I don’t know,” Chanyeol says, frankly. He rubs his face, with both hands. Jongdae. Jongdae, someone he tried so hard not to think about, because Jongdae was an important part of Baekhyun’s life. Jongdae.

“I’ll send you back to the train station, tomorrow,” Yixing says. “We’ll get Jongdae home… return the caravan to Suho. Ok? You can stay in the other guest room here, tonight.”

“Ok,” Chanyeol says, defeated.

\--

There are pictures, in the living room, pictures that Chanyeol goes through. There’s a young Jongdae and Baekhyun, grinning, tag-teaming an older Yixing.

Baekhyun had said that he grew up with Jongdae.

Chanyeol had been jealous, honestly. Had known, on a certain level, that there were whole swathes of Baekhyun’s life that he hadn’t been a part of, that Jongdae had been. Had known, if he had asked Baekhyun to choose (not that Chanyeol would have, but _if_ ), Baekhyun would have chosen Jongdae.

He’d seen, very clearly, how much Jongdae cared for Baekhyun. Everyone except Baekhyun knew, that Jongdae loved him. Baekhyun probably knew, but he chose not to deal with it. That was Baekhyun.

That would have been the reason why, that night, Chanyeol had been furious. He’d heard the doctors talking about Jongdae’s injuries, about his nails that were torn to bits, about his fingers that were swollen and cramped.

Chanyeol was guilty, guilty inside that he’d suggested the trip, that he’d let Baekhyun sit in front with Chen. Angry at himself, without reason, that he hadn’t even been there for Baekhyun, in the last few hours – that it was still Jongdae that was there for him. That Chanyeol had only woken up to see the life leaving Baekhyun, Baekhyun too weak to even talk.

Truth is, Chanyeol doesn’t really hate Jongdae. Chanyeol probably hates himself more.

Jongdae has never thought of it, but Chanyeol’s guilty, for what he put Jongdae through. Guilty ever since he came in and separated Jongdae and Baekhyun, guilty to the end, that Jongdae had lost Baekhyun.

Still guilty, that he can’t seem to stop hurting Jongdae. That Baekhyun cared a lot for him, and he wouldn’t want them to be this way – Chanyeol hurting Jongdae.

Yixing comes into the house, face strange. He kicks off his shoes and pads into the living room, passing Chanyeol his phone.

“Hello?”

“Chanyeol?” Jongdae says, tired. “Are you coming back?”

“I…might be leaving,” Chanyeol hedges.

“Can you come back?” Jongdae says. “Just. I really want to go and see Baekhyun, but I don’t think I can go, alone.”

“Okay,” Chanyeol is saying, ignoring Yixing’s incredulous face. “I want to go and see him, too.”

 

_Jongdae_

Chanyeol comes back, Yixing lectures Jongdae for a few hours straight, before letting them continue.

Jongdae holds the reins, reclining on the box seat of the caravan. Chanyeol’s inside, doing – something. Jongdae doesn’t know what.

Suho keeps plodding steadily along, tail flicking from side to side. Only Suho would name a horse after himself.

Jongdae doesn’t know what he and Chanyeol are. Are they friends? Not so. Jongdae doesn’t have words, to describe their relationship. It’s like a garden that hasn’t been tended in years, the grass is overgrown and rampant, but there are weeds that are beautiful, as well, with small bell-shaped flowers, delicate and purple and white, like a dress.

There’s something important, for Jongdae, in Chanyeol. It’s been a long time since Jongdae felt that way – since he wanted to reach out, to people.

\--

So they keep travelling, down the road.

Slowly, like seeds packed under the earth, fighting their way out, they get more comfortable, with each other.

Chanyeol asks about Baekhyun, sometimes. The first time, Jongdae freezes up. Chanyeol backs away, says casually that it would be nice to talk to someone who understands, that’s all.

So Jongdae tells Chanyeol about Baekhyun, while they’re both wiping down Suho; about both of them being young and growing up in the same town, being next-door neighbors that alternately terrorized and charmed their pre-school teachers in turn.

Chanyeol lets slip that Baekhyun had told him about Jongdae, before. That Baekhyun never stopped talking about Jongdae, about how Jongdae was, about Jongdae learning to sing, about Jongdae playing the piano, about Jongdae and the pranks he pulled on his roommates (Suho and Yixing) the week before.

So Jongdae tells Chanyeol, while they’re arm-deep in soapsuds, dirty dishes floating in the tiny sink, about Baekhyun and how Baekhyun couldn’t stop smiling when he talked about Chanyeol. About how Baekhyun went to learn songs that Chanyeol liked on the guitar, so that he could casually play them outside of Chanyeol’s room (that was actually how Chanyeol noticed Baekhyun). .

There are bits that Chanyeol doesn’t tell Jongdae; about how Chanyeol would kiss Baekhyun before they went into the dorms, in full view of everyone, because Baekhyun wanted people to know that he didn’t care what they thought about him being gay.

There are bits that Jongdae doesn’t say. About how Jongdae knew, from the moment Baekhyun begun talking about Chanyeol, that they wouldn’t be the same, again.

But this strange exchange works. Jongdae thinks about it while they’re cooking marshmallows over the fire that they took an hour to build.

Jongdae had never talked about Baekhyun in a context unrelated to that night, before that. People would ask him what Baekhyun meant to him, and try to make sense of why Jongdae was the way he was.

There was a lot of laughter that Baekhyun gave Jongdae, Jongdae knew. It was just hard to remember all of that for what it was – plain fun – instead of something that Jongdae could never have again.

He says that to Chanyeol, says _I missed talking about Baekhyun._ He gets a small smile from Chanyeol, not the wide-open-teeth-grin one, but the small, meaningful one with the downcast eyes.

Chanyeol drops his marshmallow stick into the fire by accident, and sighing, Jongdae lets him bite two marshmallows off his own stick.

Jongdae wishes that they had been there for each other, after that night.

\--

Baekhyun’s buried in a small, fenced-off park at the edge of town. It’s small and quiet and relatively undisturbed – Jongdae used to come here with Baekhyun, when they were younger.

Jongdae stops at the metal gates, familiar panic welling.

“It’s okay,” Chanyeol says, “ we can come back another day.”

“No, I want to,” Jongdae says.

“I know,” Chanyeol says. “It’s my second time back here, only. You’re not the only one who hasn’t dared to go see him.”

“Really?” Jongdae asks.

“I felt like, if I hadn’t met Baekhyun, he would have been alive and happy with you.” Chanyeol says. “I still think that way sometimes, I dreamed about him before. Him and you, happy. That was why I moved out of this town as well. You’re not the only guilty one.”

Chanyeol says it like it’s a matter of fact.

“But I feel guilty,” Jongdae says. “I just.”

“It’s fine,” Chanyeol says. “Just. I loved Baekhyun, but he’s gone, and you’re here. I want you to take better care of yourself.”

Neither of them know what to make of that statement.

“I don’t want to think of Baekhyun and – think of all of us, falling over ourselves, being unhappy for years, because of him. This isn’t how I want to remember Baekhyun.”

Jongdae has to turn around, so he’s not looking at Chanyeol and the graveyard. He takes several deep breaths.

Chanyeol waits for him, patiently.

“Okay,” Jongdae says. “Let’s go in.”

\--

“I wonder what they would do, if I brought out my guitar and started playing,” Chanyeol says.

“We played tag and zombie apocalypse in here,” Jongdae replies, “I think no one’s going to notice some music.”

They keep talking, and like that, they’ve reached Baekhyun’s grave.

Jongdae recognizes the photo. They had it taken, after their high school graduation. Baekhyun’s grinning and pleased, and it- strikes something in Jongdae. That Baekhyun had been someone happy, for many years, but all Jongdae remembered was those last few hours of pain.

Chanyeol kneels, to put the flowers on Baekhyun’s grave. It’s a bunch of wildflowers that they gathered along the way, the stems wrapped in wet tissue to keep them alive.

Jongdae takes a seat. There’s none of the unhappiness he expected, none of the bone-crushing sense of guilt. Only good memories, when he sees Baekhyun’s face again.

“You know what,” Chanyeol says, “I’ll get my guitar.” He stands and leaves, obviously giving Jongdae some time alone with Baekhyun.

“I’m sorry I took so long to come,” Jongdae says. He keeps his gaze on Baekhyun. That’s all he says, actually. He just sits and looks at Baekhyun, some of the tension in him unwinding. Baekhyun always had that effect on him.

Chanyeol comes back, carrying his guitar. He sits on the grass, and starts to tune his guitar.

“What song should I play?”

“You should have written songs for him,” Jongdae says.

“I did.” Chanyeol says. “Mostly sad ones, though.” He strums a few chords, then remembers. “I’ll sing the song he learned for me.”

_It’s you and me / and all of the people with nothing to do, nothing to lose_

_And it’s you and me and all of the people_

_And I don’t know why / I can’t keep my eyes off of you_

Jongdae’s walking back through the memories, as he looks at Baekhyun’s picture. Remembering Baekhyun picking up the guitar, singing to Jongdae, looking at him. Practicing, for Chanyeol. In that moment, Jongdae came to know that he loved Baekhyun.

He remembers that strange sense of loss, soaked with the dawning realization that he loved someone who could not love him back.

Here, under the shade of trees, sunlight warm and lazy, Jongdae experiences that same feeling, again. There’s the knowledge that he still loves Baekhyun and will always love Baekhyun, for many years to come, even though Baekhyun’s gone. Jongdae has never stopped.

They’re both quiet, when Chanyeol’s done.

“I don’t know what I was expecting,” Chanyeol says. “All I can think of is how much I still love him. That’s all.”

“I know,” Jongdae says. They’re both looking at Baekhyun’s picture.

\--

“So,” Jongdae says, at the metal gates, “you’ll be going back to the city now?”

Chanyeol’s going to reply, but droplets of rain start to hit. They had stayed in the cemetery for a few hours, until the sunny sky above darkened with rainclouds.

The caravan’s parked on the other side of town, about a twenty-minute walk away. Both of them break into a run, hastily.

Chanyeol’s obviously faster than Jongdae, but he keeps slowing down, to wait for him. Jongdae wants to tell him, go ahead, but the rain falls to the ground suddenly, heavily, intensely, pelting beads that make it so he can’t even see more than an arm’s-length before him.

Out of the wet, Chanyeol grabs his palm, intertwining their fingers. Jongdae doesn’t like people holding his hand, usually never reacts well to it, but today, in the rain that pours, the slippery wet asphalt below, the eyes that are struggling to see, in the adrenaline that pumps, alive,  because of all this – Jongdae holds on to Chanyeol, even more tightly.

They run, and keep running, back to the caravan. Suho’s already stabled, so Chanyeol fumbles for the keys. He’s opening the door when Jongdae stands on tiptoes and pulls Chanyeol’s head down, so that Jongdae can kiss him.

They topple into the dry caravan like that, Chanyeol on his back, Jongdae landing heavily on him, both their legs still outside, soaked in the rain.

Water flies in, driven by the wind. It pools around them, as Jongdae holds Chanyeol’s face in his hands and keeps kissing him, numb lips seeking the warmth in his mouth.

Chanyeol’s arm snakes around Jongdae’s waist, pulling Jongdae closer.

It’s the warmth, the sudden warmth of the caravan, and Chanyeol’s heat, that penetrates the cold numbness and makes Jongdae shiver.

Chanyeol stands, lifting Jongdae with him. He pulls the caravan door shut, and his eyes, when he looks at Jongdae, makes Jongdae go _fuck,_ feebly.

Their clothes go, unceremoniously, Chanyeol sliding hands up Jongdae’s chest, pulling the shirt up and off his head. He takes his own shirt and jeans off in the time it takes Jongdae to unbuckle his pants, fingers slow and stupid.

He gets a towel, runs it down Jongdae’s arms, pats his torso, then ruffles his hair.

Jongdae kicks off his pants. Chanyeol drops to his knees, drying one of Jongdae’s legs, then the other. He leans in and licks the water off Jongdae’s inner thigh.

Jongdae grabs a towel, off the shelf. He drapes it over Chanyeol’s hair, soaking away the water.

It’s surreal; Jongdae’s drying Chanyeol’s hair, while Chanyeol buries his face in Jongdae’s pubic hair, licking at his balls. Sucking one in, first, then licking the other, casually brushing by the base of Jongdae’s cock.

“You should sit down,” Chanyeol says, and Jongdae shuts his eyes as blood fucking rushes down south.

“I want to dry you off first,” Jongdae says. Chanyeol can’t get sick.

Chanyeol’s smiling; “sure”.

So Chanyeol’s kneeling before the bed, between Jongdae’s thighs. Jongdae tousles his hair, dries off his neck, goes down his chest, down, purposely towels Chanyeol’s cock and balls – _fuck_ –

Chanyeol stands, so Jongdae can get better access. Jongdae does his legs, first, and Chanyeol turns, so Jongdae wipes the back of his legs, then palms his ass. It’s firm and round; Jongdae noses it, bites it.

Chanyeol reaches a hand behind him, warningly tapping Jongdae’s head. Jongdae laughs and lets him turn back around.

Chanyeol’s cock is right in his face. Jongdae – hasn’t done this, for anyone – but he’s curious, how does it taste, how will it feel?

“Another time,” Chanyeol says. He drops to his knees again, pushes Jongdae so that he’s lying flat on the bed, ass at the edge of it.

Like that, Chanyeol wraps his lips around Jongdae’s cock, holding it in his mouth, letting the warmth get to Jongdae. Jongdae’s left foot twitches restlessly, sliding in the bedsheets.

Hands, cupping and kneading the wrinkled skin of his balls. Slow suction that keeps increasing, as Chanyeol takes more and more of Jongdae into his mouth.

Chanyeol presses his tongue against the underside of Jongdae’s cock, his cockhead hits the roof of Chanyeol’s mouth and sensation

Fucking flares

Jongdae’s hips are twisting off the bed, fruitlessly, because Chanyeol’s fingers pressed a spot behind his balls, firmly.

“ _Ah,_ ” Jongdae says, choked and ragged. “ _Chanyeol, it –_ ah. _Uh. Ah. Ah. Aah. Aah. Ah!_ Chanyeol, Chanyeol-“ the words come out twisted and broken. Jongdae runs a hand down his own chest, tugging at his nipples.

“More,” he says, rubbing harder.

There’s the click of – Jongdae knows what that is, it’s lube. There’s coldness, circling his asshole, suction still tight around his cock.

Chanyeol comes up for air.

“Feel good?”

“Don’t stop,” Jongdae orders.

Chanyeol takes it slow and leisurely, Jongdae twisting on the sheets as he works a finger in; muscles tensing, resisting, giving way.

“ _Un._ ”

Chanyeol going back to Jongdae’s cock, sucking lightly on the head, tongue flickering, as a finger slides in.

It feels strange, feels like overstimulation. Jongdae’s already panting, as though he had just run a few kilometres.

Things start to slip, as though in a strange dream. Jongdae keeps making small noises, interspersed with Chanyeol’s name, as Chanyeol keeps sucking. He keeps everything steady, the rhythm, sliding up and down just a bit, the pressure constant – only the discomfort in Jongdae’s ass increasing, Jongdae being pushed to his limits, a fullness that he can’t escape.

Two fingers. Jongdae’s closing his eyes because the lights are too bright above, he feels like he’s starting to float out of his body.

Three, Chanyeol not letting Jongdae come.

Chanyeol sliding up the bed, up over Jongdae, hooking one of Jongdae’s legs in his arms. Jongdae’s side by side with Chanyeol, head lolling on Chanyeol’s chest, as Chanyeol eases his cock into him.

Jongdae hooks an arm over Chanyeol’s neck, pulling them closer together. He feels light-headed, like every bit of his skin has become too sensitive; sheets scratching at him, cock heavy and light at the same time, pressed against Chanyeol’s abdomen.

Chanyeol’s panting, heavy in his ear. Small, whimpering noises, as he tries to ease in carefully.

Chanyeol going in is more intense than – anything, than everything, pressure slow and inexorable, ramping and building, steadily taking Jongdae beyond what he thinks he can handle. Something sliding into Jongdae, thoroughly, into places Jongdae didn’t even know existed. It is different, sober.

Jongdae comes, suddenly, while Chanyeol’s halfway in; lights going off behind eyelids, body tensing painfully, clenching inwards, to some point on his abdomen, and also in his cock, being pushed against Chanyeol’s cock.

Chanyeol’s petting him, string of curses flowing, from his mouth. He made noises, like a wounded animal, just now.

Jongdae lets Chanyeol roll him onto his back, Chanyeol sliding in even further, in this new position, against Jongdae’s overstimulated cock, against all the exposed and exploding nerve endings in his body.

Chanyeol’s saying _Jongdae,_ as he starts to pull out, then he’s slipping back in again, like he’s trying to lodge himself all the way up into Jongdae’s throat. Jongdae can feel his balls, and hair, against Jongdae’s ass.

Chanyeol’s crying, a bit. Jongdae runs fingers through Chanyeol’s hair, shakily, reassuring him.

He slides in, and out

In, and out, in and out and in and

Gasping, against Jongdae’s collarbone, Chanyeol comes, whole body seizing and locking, shaking so hard Jongdae can feel his cock twitching, all the way in, has a sort of mini-orgasm himself, body clenching around the suddenly hot spill that goes and stains inside, heat seeping, volcanic, turning bones to liquid.

Both of them fall asleep, just like that.

\--

Chanyeol’s cleaning Jongdae up, fingers in his ass, when Jongdae wakes up.

“I want to keep seeing you,” Chanyeol says, serious, and Jongdae fucking laughs, because only Chanyeol will say something like that with his fingers up someone’s ass.

“I mean it,” Chanyeol says. Jongdae says, “I know,” beckons Chanyeol to lean down, hugs him.

\--

They take turns to visit Baekhyun, over the next few days. Jongdae tells Baekhyun about the days, about not knowing which day it was, about waking up and being unable to move, completely exhausted and drained without having done anything.

He tells Baekhyun about Chanyeol, also, about not knowing what will happen between them – Chanyeol will go back to the city, and Jongdae won’t leave his town.

It’s been a long while, but Jongdae’s talking to Baekhyun again, like they used to.

\--

Chanyeol hugs Jongdae, outside the cemetery gates, after they’ve visited Baekhyun together for the last time.

Chanyeol strummed, and Jongdae sang.

“I might quit,” Chanyeol says. “I’m twenty-six… I have a few more years, then I’m too old for the industry. I was thinking of going freelance. Maybe as an agent, maybe as a photographer.”

Jongdae nods. He’s going to go home and then look for odd jobs.

“Can I call you?” Chanyeol asks. Jongdae says, “Sure.”

“Can I come visit?” Chanyeol asks. Jongdae says, “of course.”

“Can I come stay?” Chanyeol asks. Jongdae says, “I’ll wait.”

Chanyeol holds Jongdae, outside the cemetery gates. Jongdae hugs him back and thinks of Baekhyun, and Chanyeol.

He wonders what his life would have been, if he hadn’t met people who mattered so much, to him. Wonders what will happen to him, and Chanyeol.

But there’s something about Chanyeol, that Jongdae trusts. Baekhyun had said, _he means what he says._ No artifice, nothing hidden below.

“I’ll wait,” Jongdae says, and Chanyeol nods, tightening his hold on Jongdae.

 

-fin-


End file.
